


things will be different

by Magpied_Spider



Series: Children shall not be put to death for the sins of their father [2]
Category: Sky High (2005)
Genre: Gen, What kind of classes do they have at this school anyway?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-20
Updated: 2016-02-20
Packaged: 2018-05-22 00:04:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,341
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6063145
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Magpied_Spider/pseuds/Magpied_Spider
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There’s more than one reason that Warren can’t rent a tux.<br/><em>“Oh, you’re so funny,” she replies, neither laughing nor giving any indication of humor, “but seriously, you’re never going to believe what happened.”</em><br/><em>Warren is not impressed. Clearly, she hadn’t followed his advice about biting the bullet and asking Stronghold out to homecoming after all, but if he knows one thing about this girl he knows this: once she gets started on a topic, there is no stemming the tide of information.</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	things will be different

**Author's Note:**

> Title from A Softer World 42: When I get to the future, things will be different / people will respect one another, war won’t exist / we will finally understand sex. / (cars that hover and dads who come home)
> 
>  

Warren has all but forgotten about the conversation he’d had with _red-haired white girl_ Layla the night before, when she sits down at his table, completely unannounced.

“Hi, Warren,” she says chirpily, unscrewing a bottle of juice. Warren looks up from the Chinese magazine he’s picked up from the Paper Lantern a couple of days ago and stares. Usually, this is enough to make people who make the mistake of sitting on his table go away, but it doesn’t seem to be having any effect. “Did I say, or do, anything last night to make you think this is okay?” Warren tries.

“Oh, you’re so funny,” she replies, neither laughing nor giving any indication of humor, “but seriously, you’re never going to believe what happened.”

Warren is not impressed. Clearly, she hadn’t followed his advice about biting the bullet and asking Stronghold out to homecoming after all, but if he knows one thing about this girl he knows this: once she gets started on a topic, there is no stemming the tide of information.

“I was _just_ about to ask Will to homecoming when, wouldn’t you know it? I told him I was going with you instead.” She sounds as if she’s trying to get this information out as quickly as possible, and if she maintains a jovial tone of voice then he won’t realize what she’s actually—wait.

What?

“I don’t remember that being the plan.” He’s about to continue when a girl covered in purple sits down next to Layla, one, completely ignoring the fact that this is _his_ table, and two, ignoring _him_.

“Hey Layla, did you do the history homework—“ she must be another one of the sidekick squad. He spends half a second wondering what her power is, before returning to mild outrage: this is _his_ table, and he sits here alone so that he can _be_ _alone_.

He can’t let this new girl continue the precedent that Layla has set, so he says, in a mildly menacing tone of voice, “What are you doing.”

“It’s called sitting,” she replies, with a voice devoid of any kind of emotion, which is just _great_ , there is a maximum of one apathetic person on a table and that person is – or at least _should be_ – him.

“No one _sits_ here but me.”

“Mm-hmm.” She replies, completely undaunted, before turning back to Layla-the-nuisance-maker and continuing to make noise about history homework.

The sidekick syllabus must be different to the hero stream, because he remembers doing their Local Origin Stories unit at the _end_ of the year.

He purses his lips, wondering if he can shoo them away using rudeness, or if he’ll have to incite a riot and light some stuff on fire.

Another thump, and a small black kid – possibly the same one who melted during the Stronghold in the cafeteria debacle? – is banging his tray down next to him.

“Woah, we’re eating at Warren’s table now?” he asks, he asks _the others_ for confirmation that they’re eating at _his_ table, this is starting to get on his nerves. “I feel extremely dangerous.”

“Woah,” he says, trying to stem the tide, “ _Woah,_ ” maybe he should start _acting_ extremely dangerous and light the whole table on fire, that’d work.

Might burn his magazine, though. Dilemma.

And now there’s someone _else_ next to him – the tall white guy with the affinity for neon, and he’s jabbing his thumb into Warren’s getting-smaller-by-the-second bubble of personal space, and saying, “Is this guy bothering you, Magenta?”

At any other time, he’d take a moment to appreciate that the girl in pink and purple is named _Magenta_ , but he just snarls out, _“Try the other way around._ ”

He stops, takes a deep breath, thinks back to what started this mess, and says, “Does anyone _else_ need a date for homecoming.”

There’s a moment of – sweet, sweet – silence and he _thinks_ he sees the melting kid raise his hand but he’s going to ignore that. At least he’s got their attention.

Layla-who-brought-this-onto-him gives some really forced, fake laughter, so suddenly it’s jarring.

She’s not even looking at him, she’s looking at something behind him – right.

Right, he's her “date”. Stronghold’s probably walking past.

“Warren, you are cray-zee!” She keeps laughing as the red-white-and-blue bedecked Stronghold passes by, then – thankfully – drops it.

He tries to show her exactly how unimpressed he is using only his eyebrows, since his words have obviously had negligible effect.

“Please, I promise, I will make this as painless as possible.”

He’s already getting a headache, and she seems completely aware of how unsubtle she’s being – she’s still looking at Stronghold out the corner of her eye.

“So you’re not doing this because you like me or anything,” he clarifies, because if she decides her crush on Stronghold will be better served redirected onto _him_ , that is a whole other kettle of fish that he does not have time for, especially not in the middle of the cafeteria. “You’re doing this to get to Stronghold.”

“Yeah…” Layla replies, with a slight twinge that seems about to add something along the lines of ‘not that I wouldn’t go out with you’, and he needs to stop that immediately.

“Then I’m in!” Warren says, giving her a bright, toothy smile.

He takes in her expression: good, she’s understood that there’s no possibility of anything forming from this aside from potentially her ending up with her crush-since-first-grade.

He drops the smile as the thought of what homecoming entails. “But I’m not renting a tux,” he warns, sweeping his stuff up and moving on.

He’s finished his lunch, and at least in the library he won’t have an entire posse of sidekicks making English noises while he’s trying to read.

He thinks he hears someone make a comment about the “tough-guy table”, and he snorts to himself as he makes his exit.

~

_“I’m not renting a tux.”_

It had been a good point to make: Warren wasn’t going to rent a suit.

For one, renting one would likely mean having to co-ordinate his outfit with Layla’s somehow; for another, it wasn’t like he’d be able to shell out a few hundred dollars for something he’d wear for one night.

Warren gets paid in food and tips at the Paper Lantern, and while usually that’s not a problem, it does mean that he doesn’t exactly have a lot of cash to flash.

He’s stuck, now, though, because he can’t just rock up to Homecoming in his usual jeans-and-leather ensemble – the entire point of the exercise is to make Layla look good enough for Stronghold to take notice (what an idiot that guy is, not to see this girl who’s been in front of him for so long). He’s not going to be able to do that as her date by looking shabby, they should look well-matched.

So.

Buying is obviously right out, renting isn’t an option, and he needs a tuxedo.

He falls asleep that night mulling over the issue in his head, the question of where and how burning in his mind as a secondary question to the irritated feeling of _why did I agree to this_.

~

 _The child is six and his Dad’s home from work late and Warren knows that the moment is ruined because today is the day that the police will connect the dots or at least the media will reveal that the police have connected the dots and it’s the start of a manhunt that will last until he’s caught and unmasked and everything will change, but it’s a dream-knowledge, and Warren’s watching, detached, as the child that he knows is him (_ is _him) hugs his father, and his father’s got his hands full of grocery shopping that he did because his mother was in Canada for most of the weekend for some huge conference that needs a truth-seer and while she might not be one of those she’s the closest they could find at short notice – not that the child knows that, he just knows that his mother isn’t here but will be back soon – so he curves up some water and uses it to make a hand to wave back at his son but the hand is reaching out to Warren, a huge waterfall and he’s submerged and he can’t even breathe let alone burn his way out of this one and it’s a whirlpool as Speed creates a vortex and the whole crowd’s cheering him on, the whole of Sky High, they’re roaring and rushing onto the gym floor and he sees Layla and she’s disappointed that he’s not going to what she would see as a cursory effort but is something that’s just impossible for him to do and he’s on the ground and he’s falling, falling from the school, he tripped on the ground and he’s approaching the ground and he’s calm, because it’s not the fall that kills you but the sudden_ —

Warren gasps, frozen on his back in his bed, and there’s a light coming from somewhere – his hands, they’re flaming softly, to keep the darkness at bay.

He blinks, moves his fingers, draws himself up to sit, mulling over the dream in his head.

He can separate some of the key elements: the way his father would greet him with water when his hands were full, that weird waterslide he’d gone down just before he flared for the first time, the now-infamous Save the Citizen match and the aftermath… But the last one’s weird, because, while he knows that Layla isn’t privy to the intimate financial details of his life, she _does_ know that he works for the Paper Lantern most weeknights, and would probably be grossly sweet and understanding about his inability to afford to rent a tuxedo.

Dreams about his dad always leave him with a strange taste in his mouth and an ache in his chest: the cognitive dissonance between aligning _Dad_ and _Baron Battle_ forever catching him off-guard.

He extinguishes his hands, and turns over, willing himself back to sleep.

~

He’s well-submerged in _Yevgeniy Onegin_ when he feels someone grab his hand. It’s only the smell of honeysuckle accompanying it that stops him setting said hand on fire, because it’s why-did-he-agree-to-this-Layla.

“Hey there, cutie,” she’s started babbling, “I was just thinking about you,” he’s not _cute_ , what the hell? “I cannot _wait_ until homecoming, I’m so excited…” He turns slightly, not to look at her, but to surreptitiously check how far away Stronghold and the Dreaded Girlfriend Gwen have gone. Once they’re out of earshot, he’ll be free.

Or he should be, at least, but Lyla’s still talking, while also fully turning her head towards the subject of her affections.

Subtlety. Has _anyone_ at this school heard of it?

He starts warming up his hand to encourage her to let go of it – she might be a sidekick, and while he and the rest of the staff of the Paper Lantern are pretty sure her powers are plant-based, it’s more likely than not that she’s got some kind of toughness secondary. Which means she won’t burn, especially not for such a short time, she’ll just.

Let.

Go.

Wow, she’s either got a _really_ high pain tolerance, or she’s _way_ more distracted by Stronghold than he realized, because his hand actually catches light before she drops it.

“Ow!” Layla protests.

He fixes a look at her. “Never call me ‘cutie’.”

~

Homework is rarely actually _interesting_ , but there are some times – like now – when Warren has to frown at his Modern Super History multiple-choice practice sheets and wonder if he’s going insane.

The TERROR pathogen wasn’t contained by any of the four options given – and he _knows_ this, because in their last document analysis test, one of the articles had been a tabloid article about its containment by the _Dragon_ , using his hydrokinesis to incapacitate the “lunatic” behind the operation while Hornet and Eagle evacuated the area – and Hornet _is_ given as an option, which has Warren wondering what retroactively-edited textbook the author of the test had been using.

He puts a circle around _Hornet_ , with a question mark by the side, and switches the TV on as he flicks through the rest: News, cartoon, nature documentary, ads for the latest in-home exercise equipment, weather report, and he’s back to the news. Warren flicks over to the documentary – it’s nearly half past the hour, and if he’s lucky, _mythbusters_ will be on soon.

The documentary ends – the wildebeest live on another day – and a warning pops up: _the following program contains scenes that some viewers might find disturbing_. It’s one of those biopic specials – delving into the lives of superheroes, supervillains, and anyone else they can get information on without actually going so far as to interview their subject.

Warren turns the volume down, and starts on his math.

He’s halfway down the page by the time the program dispenses with introductions and actually starts to talk about who it is they’re “investigating” tonight – and then he has to put the paper down so that it doesn’t catch fire, because it’s Barron Battle that they’re going on about.

Warren slowly turns the volume up, careful of his hands, an emotion that almost feels like hope starting to spread through him.

 _“-the man behind countless Heroics, we here at_ Beyond the Alias _are going into what made the Dragon tick – and what turned that ticking into a time bomb. With never-before-seen footage, and information from unlikely sources, we’re not only going into his life, we’re going to ask the hard questions._ ”

What he should do, Warren thinks to himself distantly, is turn the TV off, finish his homework, and mentally prepare for another week of people in the cafeteria pretending they’re not staring.

Instead, he closes his book, and settles in, half-hypnotized by the image of his father – decked out in his UHU uniform – standing before a blown-up dam, holding back the water with nothing more than force of will.

A documentary about his father that _doesn’t_ gloss over the fact that he was a hero? No way is Warren going to miss this.

He does the rest of his math homework during the ads – Mrs Chen had a sheet that they had to stick to if they wanted to keep up in class, and Warren has no interest in falling behind – and once it’s done, he can’t bring himself to leave the room to grab another book.

They’re showing footage from an old TV interview – _“The Dragon continues to save lives, though later investigation would reveal that he has already taken two—“ –_ but Warren’s not listening to that.

He’s focused on the images, and it takes his conscious brain a moment to realize why it seems so important: his father’s not wearing the UHU uniform that’s been so prominent throughout the film; he’s wearing a suit.

Not just a suit; a tuxedo.

A tuxedo, Warren thinks, that would probably fit him.

~

Life fake-dating Layla Williams is a _chore_ , to put it mildly. It’s as if he’s on duty at the Paper Lantern, but worse, because he can’t use the excuse of being on duty to get away.

The sidekicks congregate at his table as soon as he sits down, drawn to him like flies to a corpse, and no matter what kind of brush-off he tries to give, they keep returning.

He’s learned a few things about them, though, while they’ve been invading his space: Zach has the vocabulary of a surfer from the 80s, Ethan is fantastic at math but a lost cause when it comes to applying it, Magenta can speak Mandarin but is functionally illiterate.

And Layla… Layla is really into the environment.

It’s always a little unnerving to meet someone wholly devoted to a cause, but Layla is somehow able to make her eco-warrior state of being _not_ condescending, self-righteous, or judgmental. She just really, really, likes the environment.

She’s no slouch when it comes to the whole justice-for-people-as-well-as-plants thing as well: today, she’s using Warren as a sounding board as she tries to come up with some way to save a local café that has been struggling ever since a Starbucks came in across the street.

The similarity hits him as he heats up his noodles with his palms.

“You know who you should talk to?” He asks.

Layla tilts her head, gesturing for him to continue.

“My dad. My dad would _really_ like you.”

There’s silence – not throughout the cafeteria, but their table grinds to a halt.

“The whole.” He pauses. Thinks, _how can I make the comparison of my fake-date to a convicted-mass-murderer flattering_. “Social justice. Thing.”

He glances around the table. Yep, everyone’s staring. One of the pickles in Zach’s burger falls out.

“Equality for all. That kind of thing.” He doesn’t round out the statement nicely, but he’s pretty sure he’s gotten the message across.

“Thanks,” Layla says, after a moment. “I think.”

The tension fades as the rest resume their talking. Warren pokes through his noodles as though they hold the answers how long (subjectively, he knows that objectively, Homecoming’s two Fridays away) it will take for this entire thing to blow over and he can go back to sitting on his own.

~

He’s got an hour before he needs to be at the Paper Lantern, so Warren goes over to the house that he sometimes reflexively thinks of as _his_ , and the rest of the time just calls _his mother’s_. It’s a Saturday afternoon: she might be out shopping, she might be away helping the UHU with camera angles, she might be out helping kittens out of trees for all he knows.

She’s not _in_ , is the thing, and while Warren feels a momentary twinge of guilt at the thought of breaking into the home, it doesn’t last long.

After all, if he’s got a key, is it breaking in?

Probably. They key was under the third rock on the path to the pond – where they’ve always kept it – so he lets himself in, and lets himself wander through to the master bedroom.

At any other time, he’d feel a twinge of resentment and annoyance at his mother’s insistence on keeping all his father’s things – he knew that she’d left his study as it was, unfinished paperwork and all – but in this case, it was certainly a help: if his father had owned a suit, he’d be able to find one, to be sure.

Sure enough, there’s a few in the wardrobe: a few with blue trimmings, accentuating his father’s hydrokinesis, which Warren rejects out of hand – Layla has some kind of plant-based power, and would probably prefer green – but there’s a plain black suit and tie as well, and Warren pulls it off the rack to examine it.

It doesn’t look fireproof, but it _does_ look like it’ll fit.

Warren checks his watch – he’s still got plenty of time before he’s due back at the Paper Lantern – and ties up his hair, before toeing off his boots to try on the suit.

It _does_ fit – and while it does look a bit more like something you’d wear to a funeral than a high school dance, it’ll be more than acceptable.

He’s preparing to get changed again when he hears the door open.

 _Crap_.

His mother rounds the corner, and drops her bag. “Mit’ka?”

She half-whispered it, but Warren hears.

He coughs, giving her a moment to collect herself, and tries to keep his emotions – well, maybe not calm, but level, at least. “Hi, Mom.”

“Warren, I –“ She swallows. Looks at him, looks at the suit he’s wearing. Pieces it together. “Is this for a dance?”

Warren nods, but finds it difficult to meet her eyes; his gaze skirts around the door behind her. “Homecoming. Yeah.”

“My little boy, all grown up.” She smiles, and it’s a soft, sad smile. It’s the smile of a mother who was barely there for any of the growing up, but is proud all the same. His mother makes an aborted movement, as if she wants to go up to him and hug him, but restrains herself before the gesture has become any more than a shifting of weight.

She puts her hands together, in front of her, instead.

She can’t meet her son’s eyes any more than he can meet hers; she stares at the shoulder of the jacket. “Do you want to stay – I can make dinner, if you’d—“

Warren shakes his head. “I’ve got work,” he says, with an unsaid apology in his voice.

His mother nods, and Warren picks up his clothes and – as quickly as can be done politely – leaves.

~

It’s the night before homecoming, and the Paper Lantern, while not full, is reasonably busy – not full of Sky High kids, but just with families getting together on a Thursday night.

Table three wants tea, table two needs a refill of _their_ tea, and the kitchen needs to do up a new plate of dumplings because table twelve’s baby – which has been crying obnoxiously loudly all evening – knocked table seventeen’s plate.

Warren delivers the message, collects a tray of glasses, and starts putting them out – two families have left, leaving tips that he pockets, and three more have been cleaned, so all of _those_ need glasses, plus a wipe down.

He turns towards the empty tables, then pauses. Something is _wrong_.

He turns, trying to identify the source of the feeling.

Ah. Sitting in the same spot that Layla likes to claim whenever she comes to the restaurant, looking red-white-blue-and-mopey.

Stronghold.

Layla has mentioned, on numerous occasions, that her best-friend-since-first-grade doesn’t even like Chinese food, so there’s absolutely _no_ reason for him to be here.

Warren shakes his head, and walks by the table.

“What are you doing here?” It doesn’t come out too aggressive, Warren thinks.

“I’m looking for Layla—“ Who is not here, “Do you know where she is?”

No. “Why should I?”

The guy looks embarrassed. “I dunno,” he says, “You’re taking her to homecoming.”

A decision he’s still kind of regretting, honestly, but the point of that whole idea is so that Will will get jealous of _him_ and ask Layla out himself, so he’d best make sure that he doesn’t come off… possessive, or however boyfriends act when their girlfriend’s male friend asks about her. Not that that’ll be difficult. “Ah, yeah. Right.”

Will stares morosely at his glass. “Well, you don’t have to worry about me ruining your night.”

The guy had _better_ not be about to say he’s not going, the cost of the tickets could have bought him any number of more enjoyable things, including but not limited to six paperback books, four movie tickets, or a sizable portion of payment towards some kind of motor vehicle. He keeps his tone even. “And why’s that?”

Stronghold doesn’t look put out at having to spell it out, so it’s possible that the kid does actually think that his obliviousness in the face of Layla, feminine affection in general, and social convention regarding dating is the norm. “Because I’m not going,” he says.

Warren heaves a sigh, puts the glasses down, and slides into the booth opposite Stronghold. “Well, that sucks,” he says. “We’re only going together to make you jealous.”

Stronghold looks _baffled_ by this revelation, and vocalizes it with a very articulate “huh?”

“Dude,” Warren says – he can feel the influence of sitting too close to Zach for the past few weeks – “You’re so stupid. She’s _totally_ into you.”

Stronghold shakes his head, the very picture of the angst of a fourteen-year-old who’s lived a sheltered life and is just beginning to discover that the world is actually a complicated place. “Not after tonight. In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if Layla or any of the other guys ever want to talk to me again.”

That seems a bit overdramatic, but at least he hasn’t dissolved into tears or something – there are many duties Warren holds at the Paper Lantern, but consoling crying customers is one that he consistently avoids.

“Yeah. You must have been a real jerk,” he says, hoping Stronghold will see the humor in his statement, “because no matter what I do, I can’t get ‘em to _stop_ talking to me.”

Stronghold doesn’t seem to find the statement funny, and slumps a bit more. “Thanks,” he says, in what is obviously meant to be sarcasm, but lacks any bite.

There’s obviously nothing to do for him, except maybe convince Layla to hear him out, whatever the issue is. Warren doesn’t bother saying that, though, just leans over to pat Stronghold on the shoulder.

Then he gets up, grabbing the tray of glasses, because it’s still a busy night and he’s pretty sure that if they run out of glasses, he’ll be the first one blamed.

~

There are rumors flying around about a party at Stronghold’s the previous night that got busted by the Commander.

All the invitations came from “Gwen, you know, girl knows how to throw a party, show of hands who’s glad she’s in charge of homecoming!” and she invited everyone from the Hero stream.

Scratch that: everyone in the Hero stream except him.

“Oi, Hothead!” Bianca calls across from homeroom, “How come you weren’t there last night?”

 _Oh yeah, that’d go down_ so _well, especially once the Commander turned up_. Warren doesn’t say that, though, he just makes an expression towards Bianca that could roughly be described as squinting in confusion.

If there _was_ a party at Stronghold’s, which then got broken up by his father – and probably his mother, too, come to that – it would go some way towards explaining why he was so morose last night.

He shelves the issue as Mr. Man (“Used to be The Leopard Man, but I go by Mr. Man in this day and age”) wanders in and starts writing on the board without even a greeting, and everyone goes silent.

~

Layla is already sitting at his table by the time Warren’s heated up his box of rice-and-duck. She’s pouting into her vegetarian pasta-looking-thing, and doesn’t even glance up as he slides into the seat opposite her.

Odd: normally she’d already be talking his ear off, whether it be for the benefit of the nearby Stronghold – who Warren hasn’t come across yet today – or just to articulate her opinions about a particular issue.

And here’s something even _more_ odd: Warren is going to try and get her to start speaking, rather than reveling in the silence.

“Bad night?” He asks.

She nods, letting her fork – with something beige on it that _might_ be tofu – fall back into her container. She takes a shaky breath, and as she looks up, Warren sees her eyes are bloodshot.

 _Please don’t cry_ , he thinks.

She doesn’t, but goes on instead to tell him about her night. She’d thought to stop by Stronghold’s house – “I mean, I haven’t seen as much of him lately, but they’re really close family friends and there’s a standing invitation for me to come over whenever, or for him to come over whenever, so it’s not exactly an unprecedented event” – only to find it full of people.

“So yeah, the reason he doesn’t sit with us – I mean the sidekicks – is because he’s moved on. Onwards and upwards. I mean that’s a pretty clear message, right? Throwing a party and not inviting any of us?”

Warren consideres Layla’s take on the situation, and compares it to what he’d seen of Will in the Paper Lantern the night before. “Well…” he begins, “not to rain on your parade of misery, but from what I’ve seen of Stronghold, he’s a bit of a ditz.”

Layla tilts her head in question.

“I mean, he doesn’t really think through all the potential consequences of actions, and he’s… I’d call it annoyingly optimistic, but that’s just me. He…” Warren pauses, trying to think of a way to describe the way that Will had offered to shake hands with him even after almost destroying the entire cafeteria; how he’d completely ignored it when Warren was picked out as his partner for _Save the Citizen_ ; how any upperclassmen who’d mentioned him never failed to mention how _nice_ he seemed. “He genuinely thinks the best of people, he never assumes malice, and – and I think this is the important bit – he thinks everyone else is the same.”

Layla is nodding along to his points, and Warren feels a mild sense of relief that the guy’s “closest friend since first grade” agrees with his assessment of his character.

“Did you see him, did you talk to him?” Stronghold hadn’t mentioned it at the Paper Lantern, but he wants Layla’s account before mentioning that he’d already spoken with the one who’d caused all the issues.

Layla nods, looking down as she remembers. “Yeah, he was there. I. I kind of told him where to go.”

Warren raises his eyebrows.

“I said, ‘have fun with Gwen, you two deserve each other,’ and then I walked out the door.”

Warren blinks. “That’s. That’s strong.”

Layla nods. “Mmm.”

It’s also possible that it was the catalyst for what’s been the central theme of the rumor mill all morning. He holds his chopsticks up, a nice piece of duck in them, says, “you know he broke up with Gwen, right?” and then chews it, examining her reaction.

By the look on her face, she didn’t. “He what?”

“Pretty sure he broke up with her, if the rumor mill is to be believed. I mean, _I_ know about it.” Warren lets out a slow breath, considering his next words. “Also, he came by the Paper Lantern late last night, looking for you. Have you checked your phone? He was pretty on the whole calling-and-texting thing.”

Layla makes a face. “I actually lost it on Tuesday, I’ve got no idea where it is.”

“He seemed pretty cut up about it,” Warren says, faux-casual, digging through his rice and fishing out a piece of bok choi. “I mean, he was sure you were never going to talk to him again.”

“I don’t think I am. I mean, there was the party, there was how he knows—“ and here, she lowers her voice, despite the background noise of the cafeteria being enough to prevent anyone without super-hearing eavesdropping, “he knows I have a crush on him, and he’s been avoiding me because of it.”

Now, Warren may not know Stronghold very well, but Layla’s far too close to the issue. “Did _he_ say this, or was it someone else?”

Layla blinks, as though she hasn’t considered that the source of her information might be flawed. “It… it was Gwen, actually.”

“Gwen ‘you two deserve each other’ the Girlfriend?”

Layla hesitates before her reply, as though she’s just understanding what this could mean. “Yeah.”

Warren senses that she’s reevaluating Stronghold’s actions, and possibly her own reactions towards them. He takes another bit of duck with his chopsticks and takes a bite, letting her stew in her thoughts for a moment. “Did he say anything to you before you did the door-slamming?”

She’s groaning now, certain the fault for the entire debacle rests on her shoulders. “No. No, he just seemed surprised.”

“I think,” he says, looking her in the eyes, “That you may have jumped the gun. Find him, talk to him. I mean actually talk – get him alone, get him to explain his side of the story, then explain yours.”

The side of a tray landing next to him almost makes Warren jump, though it shouldn’t – it’s a miracle that he and Layla have been able to discuss the whole thing and come to a conclusion _without_ the rest of the sidekick squad being present.

“Yo, Layla!” Zach greets her, adding a slightly more subdued, “hey, Warren,” as he slides in next to her. “You guys looking forward to tonight?”

Warren meets Layla’s eyes – technically, it’s her call – and gives her a smile.

“Yeah,” she says, after an almost imperceptible moment of hesitation. “We’ll be there.”

**Author's Note:**

> There are so many people at my school who I refer to (mentally, obviously) as some variant on that-blonde-one-who-plays-hockey or that-red-haired-guy-who-plays-cello, even after I’ve learned their names.
> 
> I'm rowingviolahere on tumblr - come find me! (always happy to chat, but uni's on and thus this'll probably be the last lengthy one from me for a while)


End file.
